theatre, in
order to superintend the necessary arrangements for the reception of
his Royal patrons. Upon reaching the theatre, Elliston went at once to
the King's box, and seeing a man fast asleep in His Majesty's chair,
was about recalling him to his senses somewhat roughly, when, happily,
he discovered who it was that had so unexpectedly taken possession of
the Royal chair. What was to be done? Elliston could not presume to
wake His Majesty--to approach him--speak to him--touch
him--impossible! and yet something was necessary to be done, as it was
time to light the theatre, and, what was of still more importance, to
relieve the anxiety of the Queen and family. Elliston hit on the
following expedient: Taking up a Violin from the orchestra he stepped
into the pit, and placing himself beneath his exalted guest, struck up
_dolcemente_--

[Illustration: God save our no-ble King! Long live our gra-cious
King!]

The expedient produced the desired effect. The sleeper was loosened
from the spell which bound him. Awakened, His Majesty stared at the
comedian full in the face, ejaculated, "Hey, hey, hey!--what,
what--oh, yes! I see--Elliston--ha, ha! Rain came on--took a
seat--took a nap. What's o'clock?" "Nearly six, your Majesty." "Say
I'm here. Stay, stay! This wig won't do--eh, eh! Don't keep the people
waiting--light up; light up; let them in--fast asleep. Play well
to-night, Elliston." The theatre was illuminated; messengers were
despatched to the Royal party, which, having arrived in due course,
Elliston quitted the side of the affable Monarch, and prepared himself
for his part in the performance.

SIR WALTER SCOTT ON MUSIC AND FIDDLES.

"I do not know and cannot utter," said Sir Walter, "a note of music;
and complicated harmony seems to me a babble of confused, though
pleasing sounds; yet simple melodies, especially if connected with
words and ideas, have as much effect on me as on most people. I cannot
bear a voice that has no more life in it than a pianoforte or
bugle-horn. There is in almost all the fine arts a something of soul
and spirit, which, like the vital principle in man, defies the
research of the most critical anatomist. You feel where it is not, yet
you cannot describe what it is you want." Sir Joshua, or some other
great painter, was looking at a picture on which much pains had been
bestowed. "Why--yes," he said, in a hesitating manner; "it is very
clever--very well done. Can't find fault, but it wa